


Supernatural Imagines (New and Hopefully Improved??)

by IdSellMySoulForRecentlyUpdatedFanfiction



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Self-Insert, blah, supernatural self insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-04-04 22:47:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14030514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IdSellMySoulForRecentlyUpdatedFanfiction/pseuds/IdSellMySoulForRecentlyUpdatedFanfiction
Summary: Super not edited, but ur bitch is back and trying (if ur here from sterek this is p much just practice for that I'd never leave them)





	Supernatural Imagines (New and Hopefully Improved??)

**Imagine your mother has fallen ill and is no longer able to care for you, so she calls your father to come get you.**

 

(Name) remembers the moment their mom told them she was sick. She sat them down in the kitchen - the old oak chairs creaking under their weights - and she sat silent for a moment. It was late on a summer afternoon. Golden light streamed past the pale pink curtain of the kitchen window and through the glass patio doors to illuminate the dust hovering in the air. A streak cut across (Name)’s mom’s face as she looked at them with serious eyes. Something heavy hung in (Name)’s stomach, making its way up to their throat as they suffocated in the heavy silence. (Name) stared at the bags beneath their mother’s eyes as she shifted forward, placing her hands on the table palm-up. (Name) watched frail fingers move with emptying eyes - looked at the veins that were too visible beneath paling skin. They listened to the quiet wheeze at the end of every breath - only audible now that it wasn’t hiding beneath the drone of the news or a quiet radio - and raised their eyes to look into their mother’s. Even her eyes seemed duller as they sat there in silence.

(Name) raised their hands hesitantly, feeling their stomach turn as they shakily put them down on top of their mother’s. Barely-warm hands clutched onto the shuddering pair and squeezed. (Name) hadn’t realized they looked away again until they had to force their gaze back to their mother’s face.

“I’m sick, (nickname).” (Mom’s name) murmured. (Name) stared at their entwined hands. “I’m doing all I can, but I’m sick.” Wind rustled the pale curtain and walls painted with a fading yellow shook just slightly as somebody in the complex flushed their toilet or turned on their shower. The timer blinked wildly as the stove went off and (Name) watched the red zeros blink in distress, but all they could hear was the blood rushing in their head. (Mom’s Name)’s mouth moved and they couldn’t hear her voice, but they could see her trembling. They could make out her words:  _ It might be terminal _ . It was a late afternoon on a summer day and (Name)’s life fell apart.

After the official diagnosis - something long and ugly and unpronounceable - (Mom’s Name)’s health deteriorates. With each week she sleeps more and moves less, and every morning her eyes open just a bit narrower than before. Dust seems to manifest in her room without cause - clinging to anything it can: wooden desks, pale sheets, old lamps, mirrors, water-stained pictures,  _ everything _ . (Name) does everything they can; they cook and they clean and at this point their mom’s room smells permanently like lemon cleaner, but buying groceries and paying bills doesn’t cure their mom.

They’ve gone to so many doctors that the men and women have blended together to form some sort of hulking monster in (Name)’s nightmares. White lab coats on white lab coats over buttoned shirts on button shirts. “Wait it out,” The Thing screams, full of needles and dead eyes and blood tests, “all you can do is settle down and wait.” In the distance - nearly hidden by fog and the endless tick-tock of a wall clock - (Name)’s mother sits at their table in the kitchen, staring at the worn, tie-dyed towel resting next to the shining oven.

“I’d have to sell the house.” She says, “I’d have to sell the house and then I’d disappear.” Everything shakes as The Things screeches and runs towards (Name) and bills fall from the dark clouds above, growing and growing and growing until the shadow of the debt falls over (Name) and they jerk awake in bed only to struggle to breathe. In the dark and quiet of their room, (Name) has nothing but their own heavy gasps to block the sound of their mother murmuring to herself in the room next to them. Nearly daily, (Name) will sit in their bed with their blankets clutched up to their chest, watching the shadows move as the early light of twilight dances pink and pastel across the walls. They’ll sit and they’ll watch and they’ll wait for their alarm to start wailing at them, just for them to slam on the snooze and wait for their mother to stir in the next room. Despite everything she still wants to be awake when (Name) leaves the house.

(Name) doesn’t let her get up to say goodbye, though. Not when it looks like every movement causes her pain. Every step makes her jerk, and (Name) isn’t a religious person ( _ since the word terminal passed the first doctor’s lips _ ), but they’ve started asking whoever’s willing to listen to keep (Mom’s Name) from falling or hitting any piece of furniture too hard. They really can’t afford any more medical bills.

Months pass and nothing but (Mom’s Name)’s health changes. (Name) had asked for as many hours as their managers and coworkers were willing to fork over, and they definitely did their best to deliver. Working overtime or above weekly left little time for (Name) to be home, but their mom didn’t seem to mind. They didn’t understand why - they  _ wanted _ a rise, they  _ wanted _ some sort of  _ emotion _ \- until around two years past the diagnosis.

(Name) is dragging their sore feet down the road to their house. In the harsh yellow light of the street lamps their clothes - stained and torn and scuffed - look even more ragged than usual. There’s a dark smudge of something oily on the side of (Name)’s white shirt, and they scowl at is as they approach their home. They slow, though, when they notice the dark, spotless car looming in their driveway. It’s old and well-cared-for and has no business sitting in the spot (Name) planned on putting their Jeep when they got around to affording it. Their ( _ dark/pale _ ) eyes flicker to the only front-facing window of their apartment, and the old curtains are backlit with the pale glow of the kitchen light.

Their pain hidden behind a sudden rush of adrenaline and confusion, (Name) makes their way to the door, unlocking it quickly and shoving it open. A murmuring from the kitchen stops as the door slams shut behind (Name), and (Name) can feel their confusion turn to a burning rage as they see who’s sitting at their spot at the table. (Mom’s Name) watches with tired eyes as (Name) takes in the _stranger_ _sitting in their spot_. Except he’s not a stranger. (Name)’s mom keeps no pictures and no stories and no visible memories but it’s difficult not to recognize features that (Name) sees every morning in the mirror.

There’s a floral vase next to the door.  _ Was  _ a vase next to the door. It shatters on the wall behind the man and falls to the shitty tan carpet in a hail of shimmering fury. Instead of sitting in (Name)’s seat, the man’s now kneeling a few feet away, staring at the water dripping down the wall and the old flower soaking into the carpet. He’s tall and dirty blonde and covered in freckles with green eyes and (Name) is going to  _ fucking murder him _ . He’s fast, they’ll give him that, but (Name) has been running and hauling shit and carrying weight for the last two years and a good, solid punch can end everything. 

The man rises to his feet with his hands held in front of his chest, but it doesn’t keep (Name) from advancing on him. From the side, they can hear their mother sigh as the man moves around the table for a boundary.

“I told you, they’ve got your personality.” (Mom’s Name) mutters, watching with depressed eyes. The man’s wild pair flicker to meet hers, as (Name) contemplates throwing a butter knife at the bastard’s face. He focuses on (Name) again quickly.

“I’m Dean. Winchester.” He says, “And I am so,  _ so _ sorry.”


End file.
